The Sounds of Silence
by Stelartron
Summary: An old program witnesses what may well be the end of an era... and the beginning of a new one.


Author's Note: OK now that I've gotten this story written, maybe it'll leave me alone and let me work on "I Fight for the Users" some more. XD

Anyway, this fic was inspired by the fic "Tales from the Grid" by THECURSOR - which I reccomend you checking out, by the way, tis very cool - specificallly, Chapter Five of that story which is titled "Faith". Now, I won't spoil it for anyone, but suffice to say as I read that chaper I could picture Dumont- yes, Dumont is also on the Grid in my ficverse- sort of shaking his head sadly at the character's actions, thinking that they were brave, but foolish and unnecessary. Somehow, that thought embedded itself in my brain and evolved into this, which is quite possibly the ONLY Dumont-centric fic out there. Well, at least it's the only one I've seen; feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, though.

And with that out of the way, please enjoy the story! :)

DISCLAIMER: Tron belongs to Disney. The song "The Sound of Silence" belongs to Simon and Garfunkel. I make no money off of this at all, so nobody sue me, OK?

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><p><em>Hello darkness, my old friend<br>__I've come to talk with you again  
>Because a vision softly creeping<br>Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
>And the vision that was planted in my brain<br>Still remains  
>Within the sound of silence<em>

A pair of weary, gray eyes peered out from beneath the face-concealing hood of his robe, the cuffs and hem of which glowed softly blue. He was the lone bit of color in this area, the only other light coming from the white lines that ran along the streets and buildings. He wasn't surprised; few if any programs frequented this area any more, aside from the occasional recognizer-mounted sentries on patrol.

He sometimes wondered why he himself came here, and now was one of those times, as he stood gazing at the unlit sign on the building directly across the street. '_What are you expecting to happen?'_, he asked himself caustically. As always, he had no answer. But still, he felt compelled to come here, to watch, and wait for he knew not what. It was, frankly, a bit annoying.

He turned his gaze from the sign for a moment to glance around him, watching and listening for any signs of sentries or other dangers. However, the street remained as dark and silent as it had been when he arrived. He sighed sadly, both at the emptiness of the street and that the fact that it was such was a relief. '_It shouldn't be this way,'_ he thought sadly. It hadn't always been; once, this had been a bustling thoroughfare, programs going out of their way to pass by here, or spending their free time loitering nearby, hoping to catch a glimpse of their Creator as he arrived.

But that was when the sign on the building had been lit. When he hadn't had time to come here, even if he'd wanted to, thanks to his duties. Somewhat chaotic and occasionally difficult times they had been, but good ones. Every program had a purpose, and the system had been lively and busy. There was always more to do, to build, to talk about. Though he'd effected a somewhat crotchety demeanor at times, it had always pleased him to see busy programs, and it had pleased him even more to help them fulfill their functions by fulfilling his. He'd rarely left the I/O tower that was his province, but he didn't have to; programs willingly came to him, bringing with them all the news and rumors that had been fit to hear, and some that weren't.

Yes, good times. But long gone now. He sighed, turning and walking away from the dark, silent building that bore the Creator's name. He could've gone inside, but what would be the point? The empty room would only be a further reminder of how far from grace they had fallen, of how much they had lost. Dumont turned the corner, and Flynn's vanished from sight.

_In restless dreams I walked alone  
>Narrow streets of cobblestone<br>'Neath the halo of a street lamp  
>I turned my collar to the cold and damp<br>When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light  
>That split the night<br>And touched the sound of silence_

He walked on, without any particular destination in mind at the moment. Soon enough, he'd have to return to the rebel safe house where he'd been staying, but for now, he simply walked. He gave a sniff of distain, not at his fellow rebels, but at the term itself. '_Clu derezzes Tron, attempts to do the same to his User, and seizes control of the Grid, and yet we're considered "rebels",_' he thought angrily.

After a long moment, though, he sighed. He'd ridden that transport beam of thought enough times to know that it didn't go anywhere. Yes, he was a rebel, even though he didn't actively fight. He doubted that he could, even if he'd wanted to; it just wasn't in his programming. At any rate, he was considered too valuable to risk in combat. One of the only remaining Tower Guardians, if not the only one, who hadn't been derezzed or stripped of his functions and left as a defunct. He defied Clu by his very existence, as the rest of his rebel faction did, by still believing that a program's purpose was to serve the Users.

He had lived all of his long life believing that. He had been tortured and nearly derezzed for his faith by Sark and the MCP, but in the end he had survived, and his faith, and the faith of those like him, had been rewarded. The MCP, in its arrogance, had brought Flynn into the old System, thinking to destroy the Creator in the games of his own making, not realizing that in doing so it was sealing its own fate. As a User made manifest, Flynn was able to challenge the MCP directly, throwing himself into it, where his power overwhelmed it, allowing Tron to strike the final blow. Flynn's power had spread throughout the System, restoring it.

No, in the end, even the MCP could not contend with the power of the Users. So had it been in the old System, and so would it be here. Clu had the MCP's ambition and arrogance, but not its power. It was only a matter of time until he met the same fate; of this, Dumont was certain, and he did his best to instill this same certainty in his fellow rebels. Whenever the Users were involved, losing faith was a mistake, but losing hope was an even bigger one. He'd learned that the hard way, and had no intention of making such an error again.

But it was not easy. Waiting never was. Every microcycle was a struggle, not just against Clu, but against the growing despondency that, little by little, crept into their code, as pernicious as any virus. Those who hoped for a miracle, or for the Creator to charge in with some bold plan to overthrow Clu, found those hopes dashed again and again, scattered like the code fragments of the derezzed.

And Dumont suspected that this would continue to be so. According to Quorra, who served as Flynn's apprentice, and occasionally a go-between with the various rebel factions when the Creator felt that there was information that needed to be passed along, the Creator had discovered that his attempts to fight Clu directly had proven to be counter-productive. By simply staying out of Clu's reach, their Creator denied Clu his final victory, while meanwhile, dissent among the Grid's inhabitants continued to grow. As frustrating as many of the younger programs, and even some of the older ones, found this waiting game, Dumont was able to appreciate this strategy. He had tried to impress upon the others, including Quorra, on the rare occasions that he saw her, the wisdom of this strategy; sooner or later, Clu would make a fatal error, just as the MCP had done, and then, he would fall.

Quorra… the thought of the young woman brought a faint smile to Dumont's aged face. He'd always liked Quorra; she reminded him a bit of Yori, as she had been in the early cycles of her life. He'd met her a few times before the Purge, through her then mentor Radia. Ah, Radia… how he missed the long theological discussions they'd once had; wise beyond her cycles, she had been, like many of her fellow ISOs, and he'd rarely met a program with a gentler spirit. The Grid was much diminished by her loss, and the loss of those like her, though he liked to think that something of Radia survived in young Quorra. He was unsure if anyone else had deduced her true nature, but if they had, they chose to keep it to themselves, as he had.

Dumont was uncertain how long he had been walking, lost in thought, when he happened to glance up and noticed that he'd come further than he'd intended, nearly to the edge of the city. Before him stood the Game Grid, the light-cycle arena specifically, brightly lit and with a rather large crowd tonight, if the cheering he could hear even from the entrance to the side street he was standing in was any indication.

Dumont humphed. Games indeed. The term 'games' implied that the participants enjoyed them, which was certainly not the case. The games hadn't fallen under that category for many cycles. No, Clu's 'games' were like those of the MCP, brutal combats that existed as a convenient way of disposing of those who opposed him. The only difference here was that these games had an audience, and an eager one at that.

_And in the naked light I saw  
>Ten thousand people, maybe more<br>People talking without speaking  
>People hearing without listening<br>People writing songs that voices never share  
>And no one dared<br>Disturb the sound of silence_

Dumont sighed, shaking his head sadly. He'd never thought to see such a thing, especially not here, in the system Flynn had created. Programs crowding into the audience to see others brutally derezzed. Hungry for it, as though it were the energy their lives depended on. How had the Grid come to such a pass?

The answer, of course, was simple: Clu. It was he who encouraged such savage spectacles. Not only did it serve to eliminate programs who opposed his regime, it also served to make deresolutions a commonplace sight, even celebrating them, instilling in programs the idea that life was cheap, and that brutality to any who disagreed with Clu's views was not only acceptable, but expected.

Never mind that many of the poor, disc-less 'strays' that were so often thrown into the arena were such directly because of the Clu regime. Formerly normal, useful programs, stripped of their functions and left to a slow deresolution on the streets, either because they'd defied Clu and his minions in some way, real or imagined, or because their functions had been eliminated or reassigned in the name of 'perfecting' the system. Most kept their discs for awhile after being rendered defunct, but eventually most all defuncts lost theirs somehow. For some, their discs would become damaged, leaving them with the choice of either discarding them or suffering increasingly severe glitches, since they lacked the means to have them repaired. Others discarded their discs deliberately in despair, unable to bear the constant reminder of their former life. Still others simply lost their discs, or had them stolen by the desperate, glitched, or simply unscrupulous.

And those who crowded into the Game Grid were little better. How many of them, Dumont wondered, actually believed Clu's propaganda? How many more were willfully blinding themselves to the current state of the Grid and the suffering of their fellow programs, either out of fear for their own lives or simply because it was easier than trying to do something about it?

And how many poor programs, he wondered, sought out the Game Grid as an escape from an existence that had lost any real meaning, losing themselves briefly in the simplicity and ferocity of combat, forgetting their own emptiness, if only for a few nanoseconds, and filling it with the roar of the crowds, the clash of discs, the hum of light-cycle engines, and the clatter of scattering code fragments? There, as in various dance clubs, they became one with the mass entity of the crowd, and could drown out their own thoughts with light and noise, and artificially boost themselves with refined energy cocktails.

_"Fools", said I, "You do not know  
>Silence like a cancer grows<br>Hear my words that I might teach you  
>Take my arms that I might reach you"<br>But my words, like silent raindrops fell  
>And echoed<br>In the wells of silence_

The Guardian in hiding sighed. This is what a system came to, without Users in control. Without a User to serve, programs had no direction, a system had no purpose. The result was this… stagnation. Oh, the system functioned well enough, in a strictly technical sense, but there was no heart to it, no joy, no life. At least, under the MCP, the majority of programs had been too drained to realize what was happening to them. Here, programs were once again slowly being reduced to little more than labor automatons, but without the mercy of being under-energized into thoughtlessness.

No, they were aware of it, alright. The growing number of programs who sought out the various rebel factions was a testament to that. Many of them were angry, and justifiably so. They came to the rebels looking for a chance for vengeance against Clu and his minions. But those like Dumont, who had been with the rebels from the beginning, knew that anger was not enough. If the rebels acted solely out of a desire for revenge, where would that leave them when they accomplished their goal, and removed Clu from power? They would be no better off than they were now; indeed, they and the Grid would be even worse off, for lack of _any_ controlling force.

No, there had to be a higher goal behind their actions. Their cause was to free the system, and return power to the hands of the Creator and other Users. He constantly tried to impress this on new recruits. He would relate to them the story of the old System under the MCP, of Tron and Flynn, and how in the end, the passion for freedom triumphed over cruelty and hatred. They fought for the Creator, for the Users, for freedom, not for revenge.

Some heard him and turned away from their thoughts of vengeance. For others, it was not so easy, and they struggled constantly with their own doubts. For them, he helped when he could, offering encouragement and advice, but he knew that the decision about what they truly fought for was, ultimately theirs alone.

And then there were those who refused to listen, whose rage had embedded itself too deeply into their code, or who simply felt they had nothing left but revenge. The old Guardian could only pity such programs, and hope that, when the Creator was restored to power, he would be able to change their minds. If, in the end, even a User could not help them to see their error, he feared they would be lost, and far too many had been lost already.

_And the people bowed and prayed  
>To the neon god they made<br>And the sign flashed out its warning  
>In the words that it was forming<br>And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls  
>And tenement halls"<br>And whispered in the sounds of silence_

A shadow fell over him, deepening those that filled the alley in which he stood. Dumont glanced up to see what had caused it and saw the ominous shape of Clu's Throne Ship passing overhead, blocking what little light came from the sky. Dumont scowled up at it, the symbol for Clu's so-called 'perfect system'. '_Oh it's perfect, alright_,' he thought to himself. '_A perfect mess._' He wondered, not for the first time, what sort of glitched logic could make any program so close to the Creator consider _this_ to be anything resembling perfection. He supposed he'd never understand it.

He watched as the ship passed by, heading to the nearby arena. No doubt it would shortly hook up with the viewing tower so that Clu could have a good view of whatever sort of carnage his minions had in mind for tonight's entertainment. Dumont turned to walk away, a disgusted look on his face. No point in staying around for _that_.

Suddenly, however, something exploded in the sky overhead. Startled, Dumont turned back, looking up to locate the source of the disturbance. More explosions followed the first, lighting up the dark sky with flashes of light and showers of energy sparks. Ah, fireworks. He couldn't help but wonder what the occasion was. Pausing a moment to watch, he noticed that the throne ship was not moving to dock with the viewing tower, as he'd previously thought, but was moving to set down in the Game Grid proper.

So that was it; Clu was competing himself tonight. Dumont humphed to himself. No use hoping that Clu would be derezzed in his own games; his User-like durability prevented that possibility. Still, there must be a reason that Clu had troubled himself to compete personally, and whatever that reason was, it was likely something that the rebels would want to know about. Dumont waited as the throne ship settled into the arena, listening carefully for the inevitable announcement of Clu's combat.

The fireworks ceased, and the amplified voice of a program rang out from within the arena. "Greetings, programs!"

Dumont knew that voice. It belonged to Clu's sycophantic right-hand man, Jervis. Or was it Jarvis? Dumont wasn't certain of his name. Ah well, it was unimportant at the moment. The old Guardian continued to listen.

Jarvis paused, most likely to allow for the brief spate of cheering that followed his greeting to die down a bit, before continuing. "Oh what an occasion we have here before us," he said. "Because, your rumors are true. We do, indeed, have in our midst… a User!"

In the arena, the crowd booed, while in the shadows of a nearby side street, Dumont's eyes went wide. '_A User…?_' Could the Creator have been captured? No… no, they would have named him outright if that was the case. But that meant… Dumont poked his head out around the corner of a building, looking to the east, almost not daring to hope… but there it was. The portal. Open, for the first time in a thousand cycles, and casting it's light on the distant city. '_The portal is open…_' A bright, genuine smile, crossed his bearded face, a face that hadn't known such an expression in far too long.

In the arena, Jarvis went on. "A User," he repeated as the booing morphed into an indistinguishable muttering of talk, soon ceasing altogether. "So, what does this… User deserve?", he continued. "May I suggest… the Challenge of the Grid?" The crowd cheered their approval.

Dumont, listening from concealment, narrowed his eyes a bit at that. Really, did a light-cycle battle need such a grand name? And it was worrisome. The Grid had regained its connection to the world of the Users, but the User who had opened the portal was now captive, about to be forced to take part in a deadly duel. And it seemed there was nothing at all he could do about it. He continued to listen.

"And, who best to battle this singular opponent?", Jarvis asked, though anyone within earshot surely knew the answer by now. "Perhaps one who has some… experience in these matters?" Another cheer went up. "Oh yes indeed, programs," Jarvis continued, raising his voice dramatically. "Your liberator! Your luminary! Your leader and beacon!"

'_Oh, just get on with it, will you?_', Dumont thought, irritably. He couldn't recall ever hearing a more pompous and overblown introduction in all his long life. The fireworks had even started up again.

Unaware of Dumont's thoughts, Jarvis continued. "The one who vanquished the tyranny of the User, those many cycles before!"

'_Hmph, "vanquished tyranny" my sine-function,_' Dumont mentally groused.

"CLUUUU!", Jarvis finished as the crowd cheered.

Then Jarvis' voice fell silent, and all Dumont could hear for a long moment was the cheering of the crowd. On the arena floor, Dumont knew, Clu, and possibly the User as well, would be receiving his light-cycle baton in preparation for combat. Then another voice, a young man's by the sound of it, spoke up, amplified so that all could hear. Dumont did not recognize the voice, but still there was an odd note of familiarity to it.

"What's this?", the voice asked. "What do I do with this?" Dumont could only assume it was the voice of the unknown User, speaking of his light-cycle baton. Dumont frowned in concern. This did not bode well for the User's chances, if he wasn't even aware of how to operate his baton.

"I'll give you a hint," came Jarvis' amplified voice again, sounding smug and sarcastic. "Not that." The crowd laughed.

Then the automated announcement was heard, in it's usual monotone female voice. "Grid is live. Initiate light-cycle battle."

After that, Dumont could only wait tensely as the distant sound of combat within the arena began. He cursed himself for a fool. Why had he noticed the portal sooner? And why in the name of all the Users did he choose this night to end his vigil in front of Flynn's early? He could have been there to usher the User to safety when he arrived, instead of him being captured and put on the Game Grid! He began to pray softly, but in earnest. "Users, in your City of Angels and lights, Creator, in your exile here, please, hear me! Lend your aid to the User who now fights for his life in the arena. Help him where I cannot, I beg you, for he is now our best hope."

He continued to pray, it was all that he could do. Soon, however, he was interrupted by a the roar of an engine, much nearer than those in the arena. A light-runner sped by, making for the arena. Dumont fell silent, a hopeful smile once again lighting his features. He knew that light-runner. '_And_,' he thought as the light runner blasted it's way through the arena wall, '_there's only one program on the Grid who drives like _that.'

Silently, Dumont thanked every User he could name, including his own long ago User, Gibbs-21, and all the others he couldn't name collectively. He had not expected his prayers to be answered in so… visible a fashion. Again, he waited tensely, but this time, it was full of expectancy, rather than dread. He didn't have to wait long. The light runner blasted its way out of the arena just as it had blasted its way in, and tore off into the Outlands, leaving any pursuers it might had trapped on the grid. And Dumont had a hunch he knew where it was going.

"It's begun," he whispered, hope washing through his code. This, he now realized, had been what he was waiting for. One way or another, this would change everything, shake things up after far too many cycles of stagnancy.

Dumont hurried away, realizing his need to vacate the area before more sentries arrived. Bartik and the others would need to hear of this development. Dumont smiled as he started back for the rebel safehouse. Chaos. Good news.


End file.
